


Pushing Buttons

by SpartanGuard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanGuard/pseuds/SpartanGuard
Summary: Killian is hurt, and the only one around to help him out is his beautiful neighbor—that he's never talked to before. Looks like that's about to change.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 168





	Pushing Buttons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XPumpkinDumplingX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XPumpkinDumplingX/gifts).



> HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS TO XPUMPKINDUMPLINGX!!!! THE SWEETEST RED VELVET CUPCAKE EVERRR!!!
> 
> based on this prompt (found on tumblr): "I was talking to my friend and she was telling me about how her coworker had injured his arm and had to wear a sling, but also was required to wear a button up shirt for work. So every morning he had to go knock on his neighbour’s door and she would help him button the shirt." I've literally been working on this story for over a year and it seemed like her birthday was the appropriate occasion to force me to finish it.

This wasn’t how he ever planned on introducing himself to his cute neighbor. Killian figured he’d make some witty, flirtatious line, they’d share a bit of banter, and maybe she’d agree to go out on a date. However it worked for other people. 

But no, Killian’s life could never be that simple, could it? Because apparently, his best friend just had to tackle him extra hard in their weekly game of football (proper football—not that American nonsense they loved over here). Which apparently led to a dislocated shoulder and a hairline fracture in his arm (whatever the bone was that supported the bicep; he was a navigational expert, not a doctor). And consequently was putting him in a sling for a fair number of weeks. 

Good thing he was already missing the hand on that arm, eh?

But, as he discovered, things like buttoning his work shirts and securing the sling were more than a bit difficult one-handed. Obviously, he was used to dressing himself by now, but he usually had the assistance of his prosthesis, or at least his blunted wrist. He was a bit SOL at the moment, though. 

After checking to see if the coast was clear before he stepped out half dressed, he knocked on the door across the hall, where said best friend (though he was questioning that title at the moment) lived; the least Robin could do was help him out. Until he remembered that Robin closed the bar last night and would be dead to the world for the next several hours. 

He glanced at the next door, home to a rather lascivious but otherwise friendly old lady, who he knew for a fact was running breakfast rush at the diner downstairs. 

That left only one other door: Swan. At least, he thought that was the name he saw on her packages; it suited her well enough that he didn’t care if it was wrong. They’d done little more than exchange smiles in the hall, but that was clearly about to change; desperate times and desperate measures and all that. 

Swallowing his pride—and maybe adjusting his posture a bit—he stepped up to her door and knocked. 

It took hardly a second for her to open, and there she was: blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing a baggy sweatshirt and leggings with a coffee mug in hand and a bit of sleep still caught in her eyes. But—so beautiful. His breath hitched in his throat. 

“Hello—ohhh…” she started to greet, but then her voice trailed off and jaw hung open when she took in his state of dress. Crap; maybe making an introduction with his shirt half open was a bad idea. 

He felt his cheeks flushing pink in embarrassment and the instinct to scratch behind his ear, his telltale nervous tick, was itching. “Hi, uh,” he stammered, his gaze flicking to the floor. “I apologize for bothering you so early, but I’m in a bit of a pickle and could use some assistance, if you’re okay with that.”

“Well, I don’t like pickles but I can probably help,” she offered, setting her mug down on some unseen surface inside and stepping forward. “What do you need?”

He swallowed at the heightened proximity. “I need a bit of help getting this sling on, and then buttoning my shirt, if you wouldn’t terribly mind.”

“Oh, sure!” she blurted out, faster than either of them expected, judging by the surprised look on her face after. “I mean, yeah, just tell me what you need.”

“Of course, love—thank you so much,” he gushed, not realizing until he’d already said the term of endearment. She narrowed her eyes a bit at that but it didn’t seem to stop her. 

He started to slip his left arm into the sleeve of the sling and was going to tell her how to attach the strap, but then her eyes went wide and she gasped. “Oh my god, what happened?” 

He followed her worried gaze to his empty left wrist. Oh, right—she’s probably never seen him without his prosthetic hand. 

“Oh, no—this is old,” he assured her, nodding at it. “It’s my shoulder that’s messed up at the moment.”

“You’ve seriously had that many injuries on one side?” she asked as she stepped closer to grab the straps. “That’s more than coincidence—that’s bad luck.”

“Aye, I suppose. Good thing I’m right-handed.”

“Definitely,” she smiled back as she slipped the strap over his head and started to tighten it. “How’s this?”

“Perfect,” he answered—and it was: the right amount of snug and comfortable. “How’d you know to get it right?”

“I work in bail bonds,” she answered, turning her attention to the buttons on his shirt. “Injuries like that are part of the trade. Everyone at my firm has a pretty good grasp of first aid.”

The back of her fingers brushed against the skin of his stomach, making him breathe in sharply at the contact. 

“Oh no—did I hurt you?” She sounded so worried and pulled her hands back, looking back up at him with her brows raised in concern. 

No, she didn’t—he just hadn’t been touched with anything like that level of care in ages. “No, not at all—you’re fine.” He resisted the instinct to add “love” to the end of that again. 

“Phew, okay; just didn’t want to add to your injuries. I can’t imagine a pinched chest hair feels very good,” she explained, resuming her task. 

He chuckled. “Believe me, I’ve had worse.”

“I can see that,” she teased. 

She managed to button behind the sling, but he stopped her before she got too high. “That’s good.” There were still a few left undone but he didn’t want to impose on her kindness any longer—or if he could stand being in her airspace any more without doing something incredibly stupid, like kissing her.

She adjusted his collar and then stepped away. “You don’t strike me as much of a top-button guy, anyway,” she replied, smirking. 

He winked. “Not in the slightest.” He was amazed, and a bit relieved, at how easy they fell into banter; what could have been an awkward situation was decidedly less so. “But seriously—thank you, so much; I’d hate to have to call off work again simply because I wasn’t presentable.”

It looked like she was about to fire back something, but quickly bit her lip to hold it back. “No worries,” she finally answered. “Anytime.”

“Are you sure about that? Because I’m in this for at least six weeks.”

“I can think of worse ways to start the day,” she shrugged.

“Might I…” Now Killian freely scratched behind his ear. “Could I avail you of your skills tomorrow?”

She smiled, but it faltered. “I have a late night at work tonight, unfortunately,” she told him. “But I’ll be free the next day.”

“It’s a date then,” he blurted out, then realized what he said. “Or, not a date—but—you know—“

“It’s a date,” she laughed. “But there’s one more thing: I don’t ‘date’ guys whose names I don’t know.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he cursed; they had skipped that part hadn’t they? “I’m Killian; Killian Jones,” he belatedly introduced, offering his hand. 

She took it. “Emma Swan.”

“Emma,” he repeated; Swan still suited her best, but he liked the way her given name felt on his lips. Which he subsequently placed on the back of her hand with a gentle kiss; probably still too forward but better than some of the alternatives. 

Now she was the one blushing, pink coloring the apples of her cheeks as she shyly smiled at him. “See you soon, Killian.”

“Until then, Swan.”

She slipped back inside her apartment and gave him one last wry smile before closing the door, and he headed back to his place. 

Oh, goodness—he was fucked. 

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

She hadn’t been lying: there were definitely worse ways for Emma to start her day. 

Who was she to complain when a man that attractive shows up at her door with his shirt half off?

Okay, so it was more like half on, but it still gave her more than a decent view of his toned chest and core, the line of his collarbones, and the most attractive array of chest hair she’d ever seen as it spread across his pecs and down his stomach to other parts she wouldn’t mind seeing. 

It caught her off guard, opening the door to that; usually it was the opposite—her on the outside, leaving, after a one-night stand. But none of those guys were half as beautiful as Killian, nor as charming or sweet. 

Plus, what kind of person says no to an injured guy like that? Not Emma. She knew what it was like to fend for yourself and could tell he did, too; it took a lot to work up the courage to ask for help like that. 

She felt bad that she wasn’t able to help him the following day, but was surprised to find she couldn’t wait for the next; that wasn’t something she’d done in a very long time. 

She thought about putting on extra coffee for him that morning but thought that might be too forward for a guy who seemed nervous enough in her presence—which was a little odd, because she was pretty sure she’d seen at least a handful of late-night visitors there. 

The coffee scoop was still in her hand when the knock came at the door. So much for that then; she’d just have to swing through Granny’s downstairs. 

When she opened the door, there Killian was again in all his adorable sexiness. “Good morning, Emma; is this an okay time?” He was a bit more reserved than he had been the other day—that wouldn’t do at all. 

Especially because she was hardcore ogling him the whole time. He had on a navy shirt today that hugged his biceps. It didn’t match his eyes quite as well as the pale blue one from his last visit but it gave a bold contrast to his gingery beard, which she noticed was a bit longer than it usually was. This must be some injury if it was impeding his ability to use his uninjured arm, too. 

“Of course!” she quickly said, because she realized she’d spent a bit too much time staring. “Mind if we do it reverse of last time?”

“Uh…”

She bit her lip and winced; that didn’t come out right. (Or maybe it did.) “I meant, let’s do the shirt first, if that’s alright.”

“Oh! Yeah, that’s fine. The pain isn’t quite as bad today.” But he still bit back a tiny wince as she adjusted his shirt, so she resolved to move fast. 

Carefully starting on the bottom button, she had to ask, “How did this happen in the first place?”

“Oh, just my so-called best friend coming at me like a defensive tackle in a game of real football.”

“You mean soccer?”

“Yes, that. How did you Yanks even come up with that term?”

“Fuck if I know.” And even if she did, she was too focused on not touching his skin this time to come up with the answer. She still couldn’t get that brush of soft hair and warm skin out of her mind—which had taken it and ran with it, imagining how the rest of him might feel. 

And it didn’t help that he smelled amazing. He continued on a rant about his friend—who was apparently the other British guy on their floor—but all she was really aware of were what her fingers were doing and the scent of Old Spice Captain, mixed with something else—leather, maybe? Rum? (Hopefully not, with whatever pain meds he was on.) Regardless, she kind of wanted to get drunk on it. 

“How’s that?” she asked when she thought she’d gotten the buttons to where he wanted—done up enough to be fairly modest but open enough to leave things to her overactive imagination. 

He glanced down, and she noticed not for the first time how long his lashes were. “That’s perfect; you’re a quick study,” he smirked, looking back up, amusement crinkling the skin at the corner of his eyes and bringing his adorable dimples out to play. 

“Gotta let the chest hair breathe, right?” She immediately regretted saying that and quickly busied herself with his sling. 

Thankfully, he just laughed. “Aye, I suppose so. My, uh,” he stammered, scratching that spot behind his ear again. “My last girlfriend always liked the view and I suppose it just stuck.”

Emma just adjusted the strap and avoided eye contact. Crap. How was she supposed to answer that? Was she supposed to flirt back to a guy who clearly wasn’t over his ex? Or was there something else going on?

(She was trying to ignore the voice in the back of her head about him being too good to be true, like most guys were.)

“Well...I’ve gotta say, I agree with her. Smart lady,” she offered, awkwardly. 

“Yeah, she was,” Killian answered solemnly. Oh—maybe there was more to this story then. But she had enough tragic backstories of her own to know not to try to prod at someone else’s. He got a bit of a vacant look in his eyes, like he was lost in memory, until he shook it off and looked back up at her, now that she was done. “Anyway, thank you so much again. Same time tomorrow?”

“It’s a date,” she answered without thinking. Because whatever his past was, and whatever the future held, she still knew she at least wanted to get to know him better. 

He grinned back. “See you then.”

He’d turned to head back to his apartment, but she worked up the nerve to call after him. “Wait!” He stopped and faced her again. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” he answered simply.

“Good to know,” she smiled back, and he gave another in return before nodding his final farewell. 

She went back inside and busied herself with grabbing what she needed for work, but still couldn’t get him out of her mind. 

Dammit, why was he injured? Can’t they just fuck?

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

So not only was Emma intoxicating to be around, she also made a fantastic cup of coffee. That was how she greeted him the next day, and every day thereafter. He had to start coming a bit earlier, because coffee usually meant chatting, and once they started, he never wanted to stop. It only took a side-eye from his boss twice to make sure he wasn’t late again, but honestly, he’d rather deal with his boss’s ire than cut off any conversation short. 

It was during those discussions that he learned more about her—like that her favorite movie was  _ The Princess Bride _ but she wasn’t a big reader, she liked to listen to the Black Keys, and she loved cinnamon in her hot chocolate; she had opted for that one morning a few weeks into this adventure, despite it being the middle of summer. 

“Isn’t this a bit out of season?” he gently teased, hoping to garner a real smile; she seemed down today, her half-smiles not quite reaching her eyes. 

She shrugged, eyes cast down. “Sometimes you just need things that bring a bit more comfort.”

“Love, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” He may have only known her for less than a month, but the thought of any trouble coming to her made his heart lurch.

She took another sip, then glanced around the hallway before opening her door. “Can you come in for a second?”

“Of course.”

He followed her and she shut the door behind him, but stayed close to it. A quick glance around the space showed that her place was much like his: sparse, with just the necessities—not many homey touches.

“Are we at the point where we can share tragic backstories?” she asked him shyly, leaning against the wall.

“I think so,” he confirmed, giving her a small smile of encouragement.

She exhaled. “Okay. Well, today...is my son’s birthday.”

His eyes grew wide and his breath hitched in his throat. “Your...you have a…?” He didn’t know what to say, especially considering it was pretty obvious that no child lived here. Oh, no—did he—?

“Had. Past tense.” His heart sank, but he didn’t want to interrupt. “I put him up for adoption. I wasn’t even 18 yet, and his dad was gone—abandoned me before he even knew. My foster mom helped me, but I knew I wasn’t ready, so I gave him up. I know that was the best thing for him, but I still...wonder. And I hope he’s okay.” She sniffled a bit, and wiped a tear from her eye.

But another one was escaping down the other cheek; he quickly set his mug down on a table by the door and reached up to brush it away. “Oh, Emma—I...I can’t imagine what that’s like. But...thank you for telling me.”

“You’re not gonna judge me?” Her voice was small and watery, and broke his heart in a whole different way.

“How could I? You made one of the hardest decisions anyone could make, and when you were a teenager no less. If anything, you’re probably one of the bravest people I know.”

There it was—that smile he’d been looking for. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she murmured.

He’d seen it before, but not as strong as it was right now—the guarded, lonely look in her eyes that all lost children had. It wasn’t something that was ever outgrown; he knew because he wore it, too. And his heart thudded in his chest again, adding to its list of acrobatics today in reaction to this brilliant woman—who was apparently even more of a kindred soul than he’d realized.

“A lass as fierce as you deserves to hear how awesome she is far more often than that,” he told her, tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear, before scratching behind his own—because now it was his turn to share. “But, ah, I know how rare that happens in the foster system.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. My brother and I ended up there after our mum died; dad was already out of the picture. Liam tried to get custody when he aged out, but they wouldn’t let him, so he went off to the Navy. He, uh, he was killed in action.”

“Oh my God—I’m so sorry.”

He swallowed and nodded. He didn’t often talk about his past, but given what Emma had told him, it seemed to be bubbling out of him today. “I floundered a bit after that—tried the Navy, too, but it didn’t take, and then I met Milah. It was a bit of whirlwind romance but I was head over heels, and she for me. Until her husband found out.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I...I can’t go into the details, but he...he killed her, and he did this,” he explained, nodding at his stump. “He’s in jail for life, at least, but...yeah. So that’s my story.”

“Oh, Killian.” She didn’t try to give any platitudes, like the few other people he was close with had at first; she just wrapped her arms around him, being careful of his injuries. It took him a bit by surprise at first—he could tell she wasn’t the touchy-feely type—but he didn’t wait long to wrap his free arm around her and pull her close. Something told him this hug was as much for her comfort as his.

Try as he might not to, he couldn’t help but notice how perfect she fit in his embrace, his arm naturally settling at her waist and her head resting on his shoulder (the good one). He closed his eyes and inhaled, surrounded by her scent—cinnamon and chocolate from her cocoa, and something lightly floral and sweet that didn’t quite match her rough exterior but suited her perfectly nonetheless.

He had an even harder time ignoring the bit of his subconscious that didn’t want to let go of her, not now and possibly not ever. And there was no way for him to overlook the way his heart leapt when she practically burrowed into his neck.

Until her phone went off and they jumped apart. That actually did kind of hurt, in more ways than one. 

“Sorry; I better—”

“Yeah, me too.” He could almost physically see her emotional walls going back up in the way she stiffened and retracted from him, making no effort to actually grab her phone and just using the interruption as an out. He understood why, though it stung a bit, but he’d be damned if he was the one making her uncomfortable.

“I—I have another work thing tonight, so I won’t be able to see you tomorrow; but...next day?”

“Can’t wait,” he answered, giving her his usual smile. He slipped out and almost had to run back to his place to get his work things, but cast another glance at Emma’s now-closed door as he passed.

Assuming that image wasn’t a metaphor, he couldn’t wait for the day he could truly wrap her in his arms, and maybe then some.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

So, hugging him was a bad idea. A completely terrible one. Not her worst ever—their prior conversation kind of displayed that—but recently? Yeah, that was awful.

Because she really should have known how great he would feel against her. She got a prime view of his upper body every day; she didn’t need to wrap herself around it to know he’d be firm and soft in the most perfect ways.

And she was already well aware of what he smelled like; did she really have to dive in for deeper whiff? (Or become any more aware of what the heat felt like rolling off him, warming both her body and soul?)

God bless her boss for that perfectly timed text. She did feel bad for the slight wince she caught on Killian’s face as she jumped away, and then even more for the white lie she gave about the next day—it wasn’t so much that she had a late night, but more that she knew she needed a day to cool off after that. Or to let the inevitable freak-out run its course, because who on earth tells a sob story like hers to someone they’ve barely known for a month? (Even if said person did the same.)

Killian seemed unfazed, though, so she took that as a good sign. Which she also did with the bag of pumpkin spice-flavored coffee she found outside her door the next morning, with her name scrawled on it in an unfairly beautiful script.

But, perfectly, that gave her a way to figure out where they were the following day. Things change when you bare your soul to another person, and honestly, her biggest fear was that she’d scared him off altogether.

So when that familiar, gentlemanly knock rapped on her door (how a knock could be prim and proper, she had no idea, but his was), she was ready to answer it with two mugs of her new brew.

“Who’s out of season now?” she teased, handing the cup over. Falling back on humor was something was a safeguard, but hopefully he’d still pick up on the way she was acknowledging their last conversation.

His usual early-morning sleepy smile morphed into an eyebrows-raised expression of surprise for a moment, but a dimpled smirk quickly took over.

He took the proffered mug and quipped, “Well, as a brilliant lass once told me, sometimes you just need something comforting, and I suppose there’s no wrong season on that.”

And just like that, things were okay. Why had she thought they wouldn’t be? It’s Killian, for fuck’s sake. She grinned back at him and set to work on his shirt and sling, maneuvers so well-practiced at this point she barely needed to look to make sure she was doing everything right, and they quickly fell back into their easy banter. 

“I think you could give lessons in buttoning a shirt, Swan; I’ve never seen fingers more nimble.”

“Oh? Who else has been buttoning your shirts lately? Should I be jealous?”

He chuckled, deep and low—a sound that went straight to certain sensitive parts of her. “Just Robin, on the days you’re busy. But the arse can’t even keep the rows straight and nearly strangled me with the sling.”

From the other end of the hallway, a slightly muffled shout called out “I heard that, you bellend!” from Robin’s apartment. Killian turned to bark back, “You were supposed to, ya bloody wanker!”

“God, you’re so British sometimes,” she laughed and started on the sling. 

“Well, you can take the man out of England, and so on. Even if it’s been 20 years.”

Things pretty much went back to normal after that, if a bit bolder on both their ends. They still chatted about anything and everything—he had some good stories about his culture shock when he first came over as a kid, shared his strongly held opinions on various rums, and she was able to figure out he had a lifelong love of  _ Peter Pan _ (“but Pan himself is a prat; Hook, though—he’s an icon. And, y’know, we have something in common.” “I’m kind of surprised you don’t have a hook instead of your prosthetic.” “You haven’t seen me on Halloween, darling.”).

If her hands brushed his skin more often, she could probably chalk that up to their increased comfort with one another. If she found herself invading his personal space on a regular basis, it was easy to write that off as part of her helping him. And if she daydreamed about the freckles on his neck and where other ones might be...okay, she had no explanation for that. Actually, that one was his fault.

“So just what do you do at night?” she’d asked. “You don’t seem to need my help then.”

“Are you offering?” he tossed back, and she could see his tongue moving lasciviously behind his teeth as he smirked. She playfully slapped the uninjured shoulder as she continued to work. “Well, if you must know, it’s much easier to get all this off than it is to get it on. And as long as I don’t move around too much in my sleep, no harm, no foul.”

“So...no sleep shirt?”

“No sleep shirt,” he repeated, voice a bit lower than usual; she could feel it vibrating in his chest as she did the last button. It was a damn good thing she was staring at her work and not his eyes because she might have reinjured him at that moment.

Summer turned into early fall and Killian had just become a normal part of her mornings. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew he’d get better at some point, but it wasn’t something she ever really focused on—not when she was enjoying herself with him far more than she had anyone else in recent memory.

So it was a bit of a bomb when he dropped the news on her one morning, roughly six weeks after he’d first knocked on her door.

“Um, it looks like this might be the last time I’m bothering you,” he stammered, staring at the floor as she did up his shirt for the countless-th time. “I’ve got an appointment with the doctor later on to see how it’s healed.”

“Oh,” she answered, sounding much more sad than she thought she would. “Uh, how’s it been feeling?”

“Pretty good; still a little sore, but that might be more with disuse than anything.”

“That’s...that’s good, then.” But was it? Was it really? Killian had basically become the highlight of her days and now that was just going to...end?

“Yeah, I...guess so.” At least he sounded as unenthused at the prospect as she was. 

She was tempted to offer to push him down the stairs to keep things going, but who only knew what kind of damage that would do, so she held back and kept focused on the task at hand. Which was suddenly becoming blurry; how did a shirt get blurry?

“I truly can’t thank you enough, Swan, for helping me out so generously. Getting to know you...has been the best part of this.”

“My pleasure,” she replied, not knowing what else to say and hoping he couldn’t hear how watery her voice was.

But, of course, he did. “We’ll still see each other around, right?”

“I dunno; you live really far away,” she quipped back, hiding behind her walls again. He was one of the few people to get through them and if he was backing out, she needed to start rebuilding them.

“I think I can manage getting over here from time to time,” he said, with that dumb sweet soft smile she loved and hated equally. “You’re definitely worth the journey.”

Now she was blushing and almost crying. She didn’t know that was a thing. And she knew if she tried to say anything, she’d probably just put her foot in her mouth, so she silently focused on the task at hand, almost reverent in her care. 

She tightened the strap on the sling—probably for the last time—and stepped back to survey her work. But Killian caught her hand before she got too far away, and found her eyes with his intense blue gaze. 

“Seriously, Emma—I couldn’t have gotten through this without you. It certainly wasn’t how I had planned on making your acquaintance, but now...I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He brought her hand to his lips, just like the first time, and placed a gentle but firm kiss on the back, never breaking eye contact. “Thank you.”

She was left no less speechless than she was back then, but she couldn’t reply as casually as she had; too much had passed between them now. Really, only one thing popped into her mind, and she acted on instinct. 

Squeezing his hand tight, she rose up on her toes and found his lips with hers. Why her mind went straight to kissing, she had no idea, but there was no turning back now—especially not when he broke her grasp to pull her close, and her arms snaked around his neck. 

There was none of the hesitation on his part like when they hugged despite this being a whole other magnitude of physical contact, but that didn’t register until after the fact; right now, all she could focus on was how talented his tongue was against hers and how he tasted of that delicious pumpkin spice coffee. Damn, he was good at this; what other things was he good at?

But then her fucking phone went off again, making them break apart. And then it sunk in: she kissed him. What the hell? This changed everything. (Or worse: what if it didn’t?)

“I, uh…” she stuttered, her speechlessness catching up to and now paired with breathlessness. 

“That was…” He sounded equally wrecked. 

“I’ve...I’ve gotta get that. I’ll see you around. Good luck today. Just...leave the mug when you finish it. Um...yeah.” She cast one lady glance at his utterly fuckstruck face before turning around and heading back inside, collapsing against the door once it was closed. 

But before it shut, she’d heard him say three perfect words: “As you wish.”

What the fuck—what did she just do?

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

He didn’t dream that, did he? Did Emma just kiss him within an inch of his life?

He’d managed to blurt out the only thing that came to mind after she blabbered her way out of whatever that encounter was, but after the door shut, he had to lean against the wall next to it, lest his legs give out. 

His fingers found his kiss-swollen lips and he let out a long exhale, reminding himself how out of breath he’d been left. 

Bloody hell, that really happened. He’d certainly imagined it many times—and other, far more intimate things while enjoying a bit of self-love—but the real thing put all his daydreams to shame. The way she’d pressed herself against him, warm and soft; her sweet scent mixed with her savory flavor; but most of all, how he swore their hearts were beating in time for one star-crossed moment. (Yes, he was being dramatic, but that was pretty much his M.O.)

He shook his head to clear his brain; he couldn’t stand there all day being lovestruck, or else he might still be there once Emma finally went on her way. Which he typically wouldn’t consider a bad thing were it not for the way she attempted to close herself off at the end. He knew what she was doing—trying to protect herself—and he’d give her some space for the moment. 

But, as he headed back to his place and out into the day, he started formulating a plan. He knew other people had walked out on Emma and that was surely what she was expecting of him—but he’d be damned if he let that be the case.

He’d barely made it in the door of his apartment that evening when he shook off his jacket, tossed the sling on the back of his sofa, and turned around to knock on that familiar door again. He still wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do or say, but Emma hadn’t seen him for the last time.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The first thing Emma saw when she got home that night was the mug Killian used that day still sitting on her kitchen counter, waiting to be washed and put away, where it would probably sit unused for a long while. She didn’t do the whole having-friends-over thing, so despite her small collection of mugs, she tended to just use her favorite one every day. Even if washing two was a bit extra work, she was glad to do it if it meant having Killian’s company.

She sighed for what felt like forever. He didn’t need her anymore. Regardless of how he kissed her today, that was the truth of it, unless the doctor had bad news. It would still have to come to an end eventually, though; better to rip off the bandage now.

Why she kissed him, she still didn’t know. That wasn’t like her. She was no stranger to one-night rendezvous but there was never an emotional connection with those, not like she’d developed with him. In some way, it was putting the ball in his court, she guessed. He wasn’t the kind of guy to take advantage of a situation, she knew, but life had taught her to not hold onto too much hope, despite the constant preaching of her best friend.

So when a knock came at the door, she just assumed it was the pizza she’d ordered on her way home. At least she had that to look forward to—and the bottle of wine in the cupboard. 

“Thank God, I’m star—ving…” she started as she opened the door, but trailed off when she saw what was on the other side: not some scrawny delivery boy, but Killian. “Uh, hi.”

He looked just as amazing as he had that morning: slightly disheveled hair, blue plaid shirt, and those well-fitting pants that she had watched saunter away more than once. But something was missing. 

“No sling,” she said, though it came a bit more like a question. 

“Nope; clean bill of health.”

“That’s good then.” She wasn’t anywhere near as enthusiastic as she probably should have been. “So...what are you doing here?”

She could see the wheels turning in his brain—he was working up to something. He wet his lip with his tongue, but couldn’t seem to get the words out.

As distracting as that tick was, her nervous side started to bubble. “I mean, it’s not like you need help getting your shirt on or anything,” she quipped anxiously.

He immediately smirked and his eyebrows leapt in amusement. Oh no—she just fed him a line, didn’t she?

“No,” he drawled, taking a swaggering step forward. “But I’d be glad to have your assistance in taking it off.”

If it were anyone else, she’d call it out for the skeezy come-on it was, but not him. He knew he was being ridiculous and he wanted to see what she’d do. And it didn’t help that he couldn’t keep the sincerity out of his voice.

There was really only one way for her to reply to that. She stepped up to meet him and found the top button, the one that let that tempting thatch of hair below it breathe. For a second, she just traced it with her fingertip, then went ahead and undid it. Her heart was racing the entire time and she was pretty sure Killian stopped breathing, especially once she looked up at him to see that he was staring at her intently. 

“I can think of worse ways to end the day,” she told him, echoing their first conversation.

He started to smile but she didn’t give him the chance to unleash his full grin before she grabbed his flannel collar and pulled him to her. His lips didn’t taste quite the same as they had that morning but it didn’t matter; she wanted to discover all his flavors, every day. 

She tugged him inside her apartment and he kicked the door shut behind them as the kiss continued. Her fingers continued to work at his shirt, undoing her earlier handiwork, and his hand and wrist drifted to her waist. 

It was a bit jarring when her back hit the edge of her kitchen island, but she just took that as a chance to switch directions. She released the last button, letting his shirt fall open, and then slipped her hands under the fabric on his shoulders as she pushed the two of them in the direction of the couch. 

Her hands drifted to his trim waist as she guided them around the end of the sofa, only breaking the kiss to make sure she wasn’t pushing him into any obstructions (god, she’d be so embarrassed if she broke him again). But as soon as they were clear, she pushed him down onto the cushions and then one by one set her knees on either side of his lap to straddle him.

HIs gaze had darkened considerably, the normal sky blue turning a hazy midnight, and his hand had somehow found its way to her ass and was cupping it reverently—which shouldn’t have even been a thing, but this was Killian; that was just how he was.

They’d sufficiently reclaimed their breaths, evidently, because they surged forward to meet again, and Emma’s hand drifted back up to his collarbones. She tried to be gentle, but need was overtaking her as she pushed the soft fabric down over his shoulders to his biceps, squeezing the muscles as she went, until—

—Until he pulled back, wincing and hissing in pain. Fuck. “Oh god, are you alright? What did I do?”

“It’s fine, love,” he said reassuringly, letting his head fall back against the couch (and giving her a perfect view of those freckles on his neck that just looked so damn kissable but now was not the moment). “Just still a bit sore; take it easy on me, aye?”

“Easier said than done,” she blurted, not even thinking about it. He cocked an eyebrow in amusement and she felt her entire face flush red, and not from arousal. “God, I fucked this up, didn’t I?”

“How on earth could you have done that?”

“Because I don’t know how to do...this,” she said, gesturing between them.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Emma—you’re a marvelous kisser.” He winked (poorly) and squeezed his hand, which was still on her rear end.

“Ha,” she answered dryly. “Just...why are you even here?”

HIs face lost its humor and turned serious, but there was still a softness that made her heart melt a little bit. “Well in case you hadn’t noticed, I quite fancy you. And I couldn’t bear to never see you again.” 

She looked away. “Well, it wouldn’t be never. Our mailboxes are right next to each other,” she deflected. 

“I know but...I want more than that.” His hand finally left her back pocket and nudged itself under her chin, guiding her eyes back to his. “I’ve spent nearly every morning for the last six weeks with you, darling, and I’m sure you’ve picked up that I’m a creature of habit. And starting each day with you is one tradition that I’d be loath to lose.”

He’d never been more honest with her, she could tell. And it was a little overwhelming. 

“What do you say, love?”

Despite her past, despite her fears and heartbreaks, and despite his, she took a deep breath, swallowed, and stared into his intense gaze. “It’s a date.”

He broke into that adorable, wide-eyed, incandescent grin that she couldn’t help but return, but it was quickly drowned by another round of kissing (much gentler on her part). 

And it was also quickly determined that her bed was much softer than the couch. 

They left a trail of clothes from the living room to her bedroom, but she insisted he keep the shirt on until the last minute. 

They were kneeling on her bed, naked save for that bit of cotton, which she finally pushed down off the ends of his arms.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” he asked, voice low and breath hot on her ear.

“Since the day you first showed up.”

He pulled her tight to him with his left arm and she finally got to enjoy the divine feel of his chest hair and warm skin against hers—somehow more amazing than even her imagination had come up with, both soft and coarse, teasing and abrasive; kind of a lot like him. 

And then he was guiding her to laying down, and after only minor fumbling, was pressing inside her, which is when most coherent thought ended on her part. There was a lot of “fuck”, “damn”, “yes”, and “YES” going on, from both of them, as he thrust in and out and she met him move for move.

She worried he’d aggravate something again after they came (an incredible moment, really) and he collapsed alongside her, but she held onto his shoulders in some vain attempt at support, and he was clearly practiced in relying on his right arm. They did the necessary cleaning up stuff, but then fell back into bed and he pulled her close. 

For the first time in ages, she spent the night in a guy’s arms and wasn’t looking for an escape route.

(Having him a few more times over the course of the night probably helped. She was already looking forward to when he was less sore and she could be on top.)

(The pizza and wine were icing on the cake, though she probably scarred the delivery boy by answering the door in just Killian’s shirt. She got to see just how nimble those fingers were when it was his turn to unbutton—and then when he used them to make her come undone as well.)

The next morning, she got out that second mug again as she brewed another batch of pumpkin spice coffee.

And proceeded to button his shirt for him, albeit sadly, now that she knew what lay underneath.

But it was okay, because she got to undo it again that night, and every night thereafter.

(The only morning she didn’t button him up was on their wedding day.)


End file.
